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Authors: Laura Andersen
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himself? Or Rochford?”
He was so annoying that it was easy to overlook how perceptive he could be. “What does it matter? The Penitent’s Confession is destroyed and this particular game is over.”
“Is it? Why did you burn that confession, Minuette?”
Because I don’t trust you entirely. Because my mother’s name was signed to that document and you are the one who told me your brother was looking for it …
Although part of her wanted to pretend that burning the Penitent’s Confession had put an end to the ache, the larger part wanted answers.
She countered with a question of her own. “What precisely did you know about the contents of the Penitent’s Confession?”
He looked bewildered, and wary. “Only that it claimed William was not Henry’s son.”
“That is all? No discussion of who might have made such aclaim? No concern that such a convenient document might be a forgery or outright lie?”
“As you said … what does it matter now?”
“Who talked about it in your family? Someone besides your brother?”
“Minuette—”
“Who talked about it?!” she yelled, and was darkly amused by the shock on his face. He had not expected her to raise her voice.
Shock quickly turned to anger. “I’m not going to indulge your curiosity while you’re in a temper.”
She pitched her next words with care. “Who in your family made a mockery of my mother’s name?”
“The Penitent’s Confession was signed with your mother’s name?” Though it was half a question, he did not need her confirmation. “That is why you burnt it, because you did not want your mother’s name seen.”
She did not trust any of the Howards, but her stepfather … She remembered what Carrie had told her, grudgingly, about her mother’s death.
He slept in a chair, when he slept at all, and he ordered us around as though he could keep Death away if he just willed it hard enough.
Stephen Howard had loved her mother, she trusted that. So finally, grudgingly, she told him the truth. “My mother was the supposed penitent, confessing that Henry was not William’s father. But that confession was false from beginning to end, including her signature, because it was dated just one day
before
her death.”
Her stepfather grasped that detail immediately. “No one in my family would be stupid enough to make such an elementary mistake. We were at Framlingham with the others when she died—everyone knew that your mother was out of her mind those lastdays. No one who was there would ever believe she was in a condition to make such a confession, false or not.”
“What about your nephew, Giles? He would have been a child, only … what? Nine, ten? And you said yourself he had a personal issue with me. He might have used her name to hurt me.”
He shook his head. “This entire plan was far too clever and subtle for Giles. Far be it from me to disparage family, but Giles was not our brightest mind.” He paused, then said, “What about his wife? Eleanor makes no secret of her dislike of you. And she is both clever and cruel.”
“And truly attached to the king. Everything she has she owes to William. Eleanor would do nothing to threaten his rule.”
“Unless,” he argued, “she was playing a double game. Threaten the throne—in order to strengthen it.”
It was Minuette’s turn to blink. “I don’t—”
“Think about it.” Stephen Howard leaned forward, hands clasped loosely together, the firelight glinting off the threads of gold in his brown velvet doublet and dancing on the snowy linen of his cuffs. “The primary threat to the king’s rule has been neutralized. With my brother dead and his heir under question in the Tower, the Catholic powers are in retreat. Mary is under house arrest, her position has never been weaker, and the king’s public approval could not be higher after his victory in France.”
“Are you saying all of this was a feint? That Norfolk
never
intended rebellion?” Minuette
He was so annoying that it was easy to overlook how perceptive he could be. “What does it matter? The Penitent’s Confession is destroyed and this particular game is over.”
“Is it? Why did you burn that confession, Minuette?”
Because I don’t trust you entirely. Because my mother’s name was signed to that document and you are the one who told me your brother was looking for it …
Although part of her wanted to pretend that burning the Penitent’s Confession had put an end to the ache, the larger part wanted answers.
She countered with a question of her own. “What precisely did you know about the contents of the Penitent’s Confession?”
He looked bewildered, and wary. “Only that it claimed William was not Henry’s son.”
“That is all? No discussion of who might have made such aclaim? No concern that such a convenient document might be a forgery or outright lie?”
“As you said … what does it matter now?”
“Who talked about it in your family? Someone besides your brother?”
“Minuette—”
“Who talked about it?!” she yelled, and was darkly amused by the shock on his face. He had not expected her to raise her voice.
Shock quickly turned to anger. “I’m not going to indulge your curiosity while you’re in a temper.”
She pitched her next words with care. “Who in your family made a mockery of my mother’s name?”
“The Penitent’s Confession was signed with your mother’s name?” Though it was half a question, he did not need her confirmation. “That is why you burnt it, because you did not want your mother’s name seen.”
She did not trust any of the Howards, but her stepfather … She remembered what Carrie had told her, grudgingly, about her mother’s death.
He slept in a chair, when he slept at all, and he ordered us around as though he could keep Death away if he just willed it hard enough.
Stephen Howard had loved her mother, she trusted that. So finally, grudgingly, she told him the truth. “My mother was the supposed penitent, confessing that Henry was not William’s father. But that confession was false from beginning to end, including her signature, because it was dated just one day
before
her death.”
Her stepfather grasped that detail immediately. “No one in my family would be stupid enough to make such an elementary mistake. We were at Framlingham with the others when she died—everyone knew that your mother was out of her mind those lastdays. No one who was there would ever believe she was in a condition to make such a confession, false or not.”
“What about your nephew, Giles? He would have been a child, only … what? Nine, ten? And you said yourself he had a personal issue with me. He might have used her name to hurt me.”
He shook his head. “This entire plan was far too clever and subtle for Giles. Far be it from me to disparage family, but Giles was not our brightest mind.” He paused, then said, “What about his wife? Eleanor makes no secret of her dislike of you. And she is both clever and cruel.”
“And truly attached to the king. Everything she has she owes to William. Eleanor would do nothing to threaten his rule.”
“Unless,” he argued, “she was playing a double game. Threaten the throne—in order to strengthen it.”
It was Minuette’s turn to blink. “I don’t—”
“Think about it.” Stephen Howard leaned forward, hands clasped loosely together, the firelight glinting off the threads of gold in his brown velvet doublet and dancing on the snowy linen of his cuffs. “The primary threat to the king’s rule has been neutralized. With my brother dead and his heir under question in the Tower, the Catholic powers are in retreat. Mary is under house arrest, her position has never been weaker, and the king’s public approval could not be higher after his victory in France.”
“Are you saying all of this was a feint? That Norfolk
never
intended rebellion?” Minuette
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